Ｌｉｔｅｒａｒｙ Ｐａｒｉｓ 巴黎文學(xué)之旅

As a writer who has been living in Paris since 1993， thereis no question in my mind that the French capital is.the writer's quintessential city. It also happens to bethe city of literary pilgrimages--its only other rival beingLondon. Everywhere you look there are statues and monumentsto writers， not to mention house museums. If you are interestedin literature， and in particular French literature， then Pariswarrants at least several visits.

My literary tour usually starts on the Left Bank， perhapsbecause this is where some of the most famous 20th-centurywriters made their home. A stone's throw from Notre DameCathedral is Shakespeare and Company， owned by the learnedand aged George Whitman， whom the French like to refer to as\"the grandson of the American poet Walt Whitman.\" In spiritonly， of course. This crowded， dusty， and friendly bookshopoverlooking the Seine， is redolent with memories of poets andnovelists who have streamed through here for years， includingLaurence Ferlinghetti， GregoryCorso， and Allen Ginsberg. Starvingpoets who aren't fussy aboutaccommodations can still crash herefor the night. In any case， the store ischock full of books by authors whostarved in Paris， including HenryMiller， Ernest Hemingway andGeorge Orwell， and you may belucky enough to come across a firstedition or two. Prices are reasonable.

From there， I like to wander over to the Carrefour del'Odeon in the sixth arrondissement， and head up the ruede l'Odeon where you will still see a plaque in homage tothe original Shakespeare Co.， founded by Sylvia Beachin the 1920s， and which came to be known as the mostfamous English-language lending library in Paris. Authorssuch as Hemingway and James Joyce were invited toborrow books in exchange for a modest fee--as it turnedout， they sometimes didn't have the cash to pay the fee，and would on occasion forget to return the book. That didn'traze Ms. Beach， who had both the pluck and the courage tofinance the publication of Joyce's Ulysses against great odds，including the fact that the book was banned in the English-speaking world for its allegedly pornographic subjectmatter. In those days when Joyce had the temerity to writeopenly about defecation， masturbation and allude to theocean around Dublin as \"the snot-green sea，\" it seems tohave scandalized many people in high places， includingthe novelist Virginia Woolf.

Fortunately Joyce's French printer didn't read English， so itwas all Greek to him. Unfortunately， Joyce turned out to be ahigh-maintenance perfectionist， and made many changes onproof， which is a very costly proposition. Publishing the \"greatMr. Joyce，\" as Beach liked to call him， virtually bankruptedShakespeare Company even though the fledgling operationgained immortality in the process. The saddest part of all isthat although Sylvia Beach ostensibly owned the worldwiderights to Ulysses， once the book was published， Joyce. did anabout-face and sold the manuscript to Random House for$45，000--a rather tidy sum in those days. What's even moreastonishing is that to her last hour， Beach vigorously defendedJoyce's reputation and never alluded to this episode， leavingit to subsequent literary scholars to unearth the painful truth.

Be sure to stroll through the Luxembourg Gardens furtherup the street，considered by many aficionados to be the mostelegant gardens in central Paris. Immortalized by scores ofwriters and painters， including Victor Hugo in Les Miserablesand Hemingway in A Moveable Feast， you will see that some ofFrance's greatest poets also get their due in the gardens，including Paul Verlaine and Charles Baudelaire. Although theseartists scandalized the public in their lifetime， today visitors fromall over come to admire their weathered stone busts charminglyset off by the park's plantings and ancient trees. They too musthave come here to meditate upon a lost love or bitter literaryquarrel， hardly ever imagining that they would have apermanent place in such a verdant corner of Paris.

Don't pass up the nearby Rue de Fleurus， where you willfind a plaque in homage to Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklason the facade of an unassuming building. Here these twoladies made literary history--Stein held court with writers，while Toklas poured tea. By the way， although Stein gave farmore credence to male artists and writers， she never forgaveSylvia Beach for publishing Joyce's work rather than her own.Later， in The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas， she would enjoyboth revenge and bestsellerdom. It turned out to be a costlypiece of literature--through it Stein lost all her friends.

Now you may be ready for a bit of lunch--or a glass ofwine. Writers still favor three Left Bank literary cafes in Paris:the Cafe de la Mairie on the Place Saint Sulpice (it eveninspired a French movie about a writer suffering from writer'sblock)， the Cafe de Flore and the Cafe Aux Deux Magots. Theseare smoky， noisy and cozy places， where writers still meetwith editors to go over proofs， with publishers to go overcontracts and where they can still sit for hours watching theworld go by， totally undisturbed.

In fact， these cafes became both their study and their livingroom; a photo on one wall of the Deux Magots showsBeauvoir bent over a notebook writing like a diligentschoolgirl. On the same wall， you can also see a photo ofHemingway and Janet Flanner (the New Yorker columnist whowrote under the pen-name Genet， before the French writerwas even on anyone's screen). Both are drinking Americancocktails at the Liberation， and both are dressed in the militarygarb of a war correspondent. While Hemingway made a bigdeal of being in Paris during the Liberation， it seems that theonly thing he liberated was the Ritz's wine cellar. Today， thehotel pays him tribute with a bar named after the author.

If you still have some steam left in the afternoon， you maywant to take the Metro to Passy， and visit the Maison de Balzac，the only house-museum in Paris devoted to the author. Hereyou will find the well-worn desk where hewrote and edited much of The HumanComedy， and where he penned letter afterletter to Madame Hanska， his mistress andthe woman he finally wed six months priorto his death in 1850. Balzac's bust by theacademic sculptor David d'Angers presidesover the writer's study， but Rodin'scontroversial statue of him is only to befound on the Boulevard Raspail near theVavin Metro station.

It wasn't until 1939 that it finally found its final restingplace. Balzac is the only novelist that has a statue on both theRight and the Left Banks for Paris. The earlier one， done byFalguiere， is to be found on the rue Balzac， formerly the rueFontaine， where he died of gangrene and overwork， with onlyVictor Hugo at his side. As you walk in the picturesque rosegarden of the Balzac museum， you will see the Eiffel Tower inthe distance， and regret that Balzac never met the man whochanged the face of Paris.

I was struck by the simple way the novelist lived and thatthe untold riches that he dreamed of were only to be found inhis novels. When you descend to the basement where there isan excellent research library， be sure to stop by the novelist's\"family tree\" of over 3，000 characters， all of whom people hisvast opus. Then， when you get home， pick up a copy of CousinBette or The Pere Goriot， and discover Balzac's Paris all overagain. You will see that the streets， the shops， the cafes andthe people you have met are still with us even now， morethan 150 years later. Perhaps， that is why Paris remains awriter's city， because unlike any other， it beckons theimagination of geniuses， allowing them to spin words intodazzling and lasting literature.